Caritas
by Locked Heart Ami
Summary: Sequel to "Agape." Barbara Gordon comes home for the holidays.
1. Eve

Jim Gordon believed in facing his fears. When the Joker had threatened him, he went underground. When Harvey Dent died, he'd survived the white knight. Even in these last few weeks, with the Joker on the loose, Harley Quinn leashed and snarling by his side, Batman nowhere to be seen… the Gotham blues had coped. They'd gotten along without Batman for years. They could do it again.

There was one thing, however, which Commissioner Gordon dreaded beyond expression, beyond reservation, with such fervor he could hardly confess it to himself. There was no escaping it. It arrived every Christmas and summer. And now, Christmas Eve, by the "domestic arrivals" gate in the Gotham Airport, he helplessly waited again. Hands shoved in pockets. Mouth dry.

The sliding "Arrivals" doors opened. Jim Gordon's worst nightmare emerged, threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "Hello, Daddy."


	2. The Tree

"How's school, Babs?"

Barbara Gordon leveled a cool stare at her father and he marveled that, by asking such an innocuous question, he had already said something wrong. "School is as good as it could be," she replied, "Considering I don't want to be there. And," she replied, taking a bite of Christmas stuffing, "Nobody calls me Babs. I'm a grown-up. My name is Barbara."

Silence. Gordon's wife – the elder Barbara - and small son continued to eat, eyes downcast, as though by pretending Barbara hadn't said anything the dinner could be saved. Gordon himself doubted this. "Why don't you have some turkey?" he said. "Your mother was cooking for hours."

"Oh, it's too dry," said Barbara's mother. "Hush, Jim."

"No, mom, I'm sure it's great," Barbara said. "But I'm a vegetarian."

Mrs. Gordon feebly bit into a carrot. Tommy was shaping peas into a smiley face. "A vegetarian," said Gordon. "Since when are you a vegetarian?"

"Since I realized animals live short, miserable lives before being slaughtered for the sake of human gluttony."

"God put animals on this earth to be eaten."

"I don't believe in God."

Despite how much Jim Gordon loved his daughter, sometimes he hated her too. This was one of those times. He hated her self-righteous tone, hated the way she sat there at her accustomed spot at the Gordon kitchen table with a smug expression suggesting three years at Harvard had revealed to her the sacred mysterious of the universe, which she might, or might not, reveal at her leisure. She bit into a piece of carrot. "One might wonder," her father mumbled, "If you don't believe in God, why did you come home for Christmas at all?"

"You bought me a ticket," said Barbara. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Babs, don't say that," her mother began.

Gordon cut her off. "No, Barbara." He said to his wife, and turned to his daughter. "Babs, I don't know what's gotten into you, but it's your mother's wonderful Christmas dinner you're ruining. If something's bothering you, we would all appreciate you said it outright instead of continuing this tough-girl act."

"There is something bothering me, actually," Barbara replied, pushing her plate away.

"Babs, don't," Tommy whispered, the first thing he'd said since they'd sat down to dinner. Gordon glanced at him curiously, then back to his daughter.

"Yes?"

"Tommy and I were talking last night while he put out the eggnog and cookies for Santa," Barbara said.

"Babs, DON'T," Tommy said.

"We were talking about that night when BATMAN, endquote, attacked him," Barbara said slowly, "And BATMAN, endquote, killed Harvey Dent."

And with that Barbara, endquote, killed Gordon's appetite and put a sick feeling in his heart. She knows, he thought. "Babs, this is not a conversation for Christmas dinner," he said.

"You made him lie," she said. "You made him lie to the press, to his friends, to everyone. Why couldn't you have told the truth? If Harvey Dent was a psychopath, let the world know. No one has to cover up for him. Especially not my brother."

Commissioner Gordon paused and took three deep breaths. He could have thrown hi s plate across the room. "Who have you told about this?" he asked instead.

"No one," Babs snorted. "What? Did you think I was going to sell the story? Call up Silver St. Cloud? 'Oh, have I got a scoop for you.'"

"Cut the attitude," Gordon said sharply, setting down his fork hard. "You listen very carefully, missy, because this is the last time we are going to discuss this subject. The truth that the public learned about that night was one that was considered very carefully."

"And it's sure worked out, hasn't it?" Barbara said sarcastically. "I mean, wow! Batman gone! That's sure helping the crime rate. The Joker broken right out of jail! That's a really good one, dad. Lying sure worked out this time."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Yes."

"Watch your mouth, Babs, watch it very close – "

"Don't talk to me like I'm ten." Barbara pushed her seat back from the table and stood up.

"Sit down and eat your dinner."

"No! You lied to an entire city. And you made Tommy lie, too. I don't care whose reputation you were trying to save, or why. If Batman saved Tommy's life, Tommy's got a right to tell whoever he wants. And I can't say it looks particularly grateful to your son's rescuer, either, acting like this."

"Have you considered," Mrs. Gordon said quietly, looking at her plate, "That your father and Batman may have come to the decision to release this… version of events… together? For good reasons?"

"Oh, Plato's noble lie," said Barbara. She rolled her eyes. "Let's fib to the public so they'll act the way we want them to and think the way we want them to think. _Vive le republique_. Spare me."

"You spare me," Commissioner Gordon spat. "This college girl, holier-than-thou act may make you lots of friends, but this is your home and I am your father. Knock it off."

"If you don't like my college girl act, maybe you should have let me stay home and join the force like I wanted to and not sent me to get a university degree studying useless shit no one cares about."

"No daughter of mine is going to serve on the force." Gordon barked. "You have not seen the things or people I've had to see, and I'm going to keep it that way. I got into this line of work to protect my family from that kind of thing."

"Oh, what?" Barbara Gordon exclaimed. "You think I'm so sheltered, in college?"

"Isn't that what you were just saying?"

"Judith and her bloody basket," Barbara Gordon barked. "I've seen paintings of Judith ripping off that guy's head! And they made us read _Mein Kampf_, dad, and I've seen photos from My Lai. You think I don't know what happens when people start lying and say it's for the greater good?"

"Are you actually calling me a Nazi?"

Barbara scoffed. "You're more a Marxist," she said. "Tell a bunch of well-meant white lies and let other people clean up after you. When all you ever meant was good."

Gordon was almost ready to laugh, to tell Babs to sit down and eat and save the anti-communist diatribe for the new year, but his wife rose to her feet and stared at her daughter, and Babs' gaze dropped. "Barbara Gordon, leave this room and do not come back until you're prepared to apologize to your father," she said. "He's been through more than you know and works harder than you can imagine, and you will not speak to him that way on Christmas. Or any other day of the year."

"Fine," Barbara the younger muttered. She grabbed her coat off the rack, and her purse, and fled out the door, which slammed in her wake. Commissioner Gordon and his wife exchanged a weary look, and resumed their seats, and silently began to eat again.

"Sorry," Tommy said.

"That's all right, baby," Mrs. Gordon said.

"I'm sorry," Tommy said again, beseechingly, looking at Commissioner Gordon. "I didn't mean to tell."

"That's all right, Tommy," Gordon replied wearily. "She's just being Babs. Nothing you could do."

"She's wrong, right?" Tommy said. He rearranged his peas into a complicated mathematical pattern, with an intense frown and a furrowed brow. "It was the right thing, right? Not to tell what happened?"

Gordon and his wife exchanged another glance, helpless, hollow. "You did what I told you to do," Gordon said. "Anything we did wrong was my fault."

"We should have left her at Harvard," Mrs. Gordon muttered. She pinched the bridge of her nose between a finger and her thumb. "She always does this, Jim. If it's not one thing, it's another."

"Barbara's trying to figure some things out," Jim Gordon said.

"She can figure things out over someone else's Christmas dinner," Mrs. Gordon said sharply. "I've had enough of her shadowboxing."

That was exactly what it was, Gordon thought. Shadowboxing. Or like a cat at a scratching post, sharpening her claws. He shook his head. "She's so angry," he said quietly. "What does she have to be angry about?"

"She'd tell you, I have no doubt," Mrs. Gordon scoffed. "Well. I think we've all had about enough dinner. Let's see if the next course is any more successful." She forced herself to smile. "Apple pie!"


	3. The Doves

Dick Grayson was enjoying his life of crime.

He and said lifestyle were still getting to know each other. It was the honeymoon period. And Dick would never have confessed his pre-crime resume to the rest of the gang. But since he'd been invited to prowl Gotham's streets with the Nighthawks, he'd had little cause to complain. He had friends. He had a cool jacket. Beat the hell out of waiting tables with that catering outfit.

The Nighthawks hadn't done anything big, yet – not really, not while Dick was on the roster. Picked some pockets, mugged a guy, hotwired a badass bike. Said mode of transportation was now Grayson's pride and joy – the windfall went to him, as he'd been the only Hawk without wheels. He'd had no way to afford it, before.

Tonight the Nighthawks prowled the streets on foot, some carrying a length of chain or a pipe, some equipped with just a killer stare. Dick puffed his chest out, strutting among Gotham's true elite – not the wealthy or connected, but those who caused fear instead cowering in it, lords of these benighted, de-Knighted streets.

Dick's reverie was quickly interrupted. "Look at that," said Todd, shielding his eyes against a streetlight.

Dick followed his gaze. "What?"

Todd nodded at a lone form, a girl in a long denim coat, disappearing-reappearing in pools of lamplight far down the road. "Fresh meat."

The girl was getting closer, but hadn't noticed them yet. Dick squinted. She was beautiful, he guessed. He found it hard to tell, thought a lot of girls were beautiful who he later learned weren't. She had red hair. She looked upset. "She's crying."

"Let's give her a reason."

Bert was suddenly on Todd's other side. The tall tomboy flicked a heavy lock of dark hair out of her eyes, sighed. "Look at her," she said. "You see Burberry? No. Chanel? No. Coach bag means she's a college student. Let's hunt down some real prey."

"Bert." Todd shook his head. "You're a babe in the woods. That's not what I meant."

"Oh, god," Bert said, rolling her eyes but understanding. "Don't hold us up, okay? We've got other appetites to sate."

"You think I'm that selfish?" snapped Todd. "She's not for me. She's for Dick."

"What?" said Dick blankly.

The girl was close now. Todd stepped out of the shadows into her path. "Hey, baby." Bert groaned under her breath. The girl froze. Run, Dick wanted to scream at her. Run now and you might be okay. Todd stepped closer. "What's the matter? You look sad."

"Mind your own business," the redhead snapped, and again Dick wanted to scream at her. Don't talk to Todd like that. God, don't give him a reason.

"That's a little rude."

"I want to be by myself, okay?" She moved as if to go around him, but Bert stepped in, blocked her path. Dick could see the redhead's eyes flickering from Todd to Bert as she got an inkling of the trouble she was in. "You want my bag?"

"That's where we'll start," Todd agreed, and pulled it from her arms. The girl didn't try to hold onto it. Todd passed it to Bert with a tossed-off "Merry Christmas."

"Let me through," the girl said. "That's all I've got."

"All you've got? Not hardly." Todd winked. "She's all yours, Dick."

Dick could feel the Nighthawks' eyes on him. He swallowed. "She's not really my type, Todd. Let's just go."

One of the Hawks laughed. Dick couldn't tell who. "That a Nighthawk I'm hearing? Sounds more like a chicken."

Todd's teeth were gritted. Letting Dick into the Hawks had been his idea, and this was reflecting badly on him. "Go on, Dick," he muttered. "You fucking chickadee."

"Fuck off, Todd." Dick cursed right back, and grabbed the redheaded girl by the shoulder. She flinched, and Dick's stomach twisted. "I'm on it. Okay?"

"You don't want to do this," the red-haired girl said.

"You shut up," Dick Grayson said. He lifted his hand off her shoulder, moved it to his belt buckle. Hesitated.

She head-butted him. Any harder, and she would have broken his nose. Cursing, Dick raised both hands to his face; blood poured down. He could hear Bert laughing as the girl rushed past him, then he looked at Todd. Todd didn't look impressed. "Go after her," he ordered grimly. "No prey insults a Nighthawk."

Blindly, Dick ran after the red-haired girl, not knowing what he'd do when he found her, just knowing he _had_ to find her, or the first family he'd had in years was about to disown him. His heart leapt as he heard the girl's footsteps down an alleyway he knew as a dead end; turning, he could see her outline hunched among the garbage bags where the road stopped. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you," he called as he advanced. "I don't want that any more than you do. Let's talk this over and figure our way out of it."

She didn't say anything, remained hunched among those garbage bags. "You should know not to run from the Nighthawks." She still didn't respond, and then Dick realized - those weren't garbage bags, not all of them. She was bent over something warm and breathing. A body.

Todd, Dick thought for a second, illogically. But that was impossible. "What's that?" he said uncertainly, stopping a cautious few yards away.

The girl with red hair was staring into the face of the body in her lap. The man looked wealthy, like one of the Nighthawks' targets – he wore a three-piece suit. But his hair was shaggy, his face unshaved; and he was unconscious, breathing shallowly, pale and gaunt.

"Um," the girl said. "I… I think it's Bruce Wayne."


	4. The Henhouse

"You've never done anything like this," Poison Ivy said.

She was luxuriating lengthwise on Bruce Wayne's one-time bed, her legs stretched across Harley Quinn. The Joker, who was eyeing this tableau with appetite, was sitting in the high window of Wayne's bedroom, a short tumble from his eternal reward. A hardcover volume on chiropterology was in his lap: his quick fingers, on the Noserferatic cover, rolled a joint. "I'll appoint myself the judge of that." He snapped his fingers. "Harley."

Harley Quinn scrambled out from beneath Ivy's legs, nearly knocking the redhead off the mattress. Nonchalantly pulling up her skirt, she pulled a Zippo from the pouch strapped to her upper thigh and lit Joker's joint with a flourish. The Joker took a long drag, paused, and giggled. "Where's Wayne, _where _is Wayne," he groaned – giggled again. "That guy's got to try this. My hat's off to you, missy," he added in Ivy's direction, mock-bowing with a flourish and very nearly tumbling backwards.

Ivy yawned. "The creepy butler took him out for some air," she said.

"When?"

Harley reached forward and took the joint from Joker. She inhaled deeply. "Twenty minutes or something ago," she said. "I guess Jeeves is still holding onto hope that Master Bruce will recover miraculously." She giggled, took another drag.

"Well, can you blame the poor guy?" said the Joker somberly. "I mean, jeez, Wayne's got two round-the-clock private nurses and a doctor so important no one ever sees his face. He ought to be cured out of sheer old-fashioned decency. Nevertheless," he added, "Wayne needs his beauty sleep. Harley, Go bring them back here."

"You got it, Puddin'," Harley Quinn agreed, and slid out, handing the joint to Pamela as she passed.

Pamela took a long and thoughtful drag. "We should fire that butler," she said, as the door slammed behind Harley. "He'll suspect something sooner or later. You don't look like a doctor."

"Well, uh, you sure don't look like a nurse," the Joker agreed, with an appreciative leer. "But you just leave that all to me, Ivy League. When we get rid of the butler, Wayne's gotta be the one to do it, if we're gonna avoid, uh, shifty glances, a call from the union. And Wayne, well – " the Joker shrugged. "I love your little formula, don't get me wrong, but he's still in the perma-zonked phase, not quite the 'your wish is my command' phase."

"Give it some time," Ivy said. "That's powerful stuff. It'll get him there."

"I don't doubt it," the Joker said. He held out his hand for the joint. "In the meantime, dear Alfred stays. I mean, come on. He makes damn good bangers and mash." Ivy made a face at Joker, stretching out her long, pale legs and wiggling her toes. "Those are some stems you got there," the Joker told her.

"Can it," Ivy said briskly. She looked at her toes and wiggled them again. "What else is strange," she said, "Is that Batman hasn't come calling or crawling. And we've been here over a month."

"Not strange," said the Joker. "You're not thinking about how legit this all looks, from outside. Wayne's sick, very sick – so what does he do? He calls a doctor. Because what else do rich people do when they're sick?" He yawned. "There's no reason for Batman to investigate," he said. "As far as he's concerned, Wayne's one more loaded hypochondriac. Just another kook. Honestly, Ivy." The Joker eyed her. "Worry, worry, worry. A guy might think that you aren't having fun."

"Fun's not really my concern," Ivy said. "I've got a business to run and profits to turn."

"I know your concern," said the Joker.

"That's nice," said Ivy, running a slender hand through her bright hair.

"No, I know your concern," repeated the Joker, smacking his lips in satisfaction. He nodded at the door. "Miss Quinn. Or am I wrong." It wasn't a question. Poison Ivy cast him another disgusted look and rolled away, so she was facing the wall. "So sensitive," the Joker mused, and stubbed out the joint.

As though on cue, Harley burst back in. Her face was pale, and it wasn't just the powder. "Um," said Harley. "They're gone."

"What?"

"Wayne," Harley echoed nervously, licking her lips. "And the butler. I don't understand. I don't know where they went. They couldn't have gotten far. But they're just – they're not here."

Nobody moved at all, at all, and Harley couldn't tell if that state really continued as long as she felt like it did or if it was just the weed. Finally the Joker hopped down from the window. "Be really sure," he said, nodding at the vista. "Can you see him? Can you see him anywhere?"

Harley walked to the window, leaned out, looked. Wished. Had to shake her head no.

"That's too bad," mused the Joker, and he pushed her out.


	5. The Call Up

"I… I think it's Bruce Wayne," Barbara said.

The boy goggled at her. She couldn't blame him. "It can't be Bruce Wayne," he said, stepping forward. "Let me see."

"Don't come near me," Barbara hissed, and he stopped. She wasn't surprised; she'd gotten the impression he was new to the ruffian business. "Your nose still hurts, huh? I take judo at college and I swear to god, you come any closer, I'll fuck you up."

He raised his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing happened between us," he said, "Except you nearly broke my nose. Let's drop it."

"You've still got my purse."

The boy sighed. "No, Bert's got your purse, thanks to Todd. I didn't even want to stop you, okay? Look – do you think maybe we should be paying attention to, uh, to Bruce Wayne?"

The name jolted Barbara back to the present. She looked down at the head in her lap. Wayne's breathing was labored, his face slack and unaware. "Okay, come here," she said finally, to the boy, "take a closer look, if you have to. I know that face. So do you. It's on the cover of every paper."

The boy came closer, squatted, stared at Wayne while Barbara stared at him in turn. "I don't understand," he said finally. "Wayne's supposed to be sick. Contagious, bedridden, I mean, you've heard it all too, it's local news."

Barbara fought the urge to flinch. "Then we'd better get him out of here," she said. "I can't imagine lying around in a mud puddle is good for his health."

"Right, um, okay." Said the boy. "Should we, should we call an ambulance?"

"No," rasped the night, and it took Barbara a second to realize it was really Wayne who had spoken. His eyes were bleary slits, his voice ragged. "No doctors. Don't…" that was all he managed before slipping into unconsciousness again.

"I guess," said Barbara, "That that's a no."

"Okay," said the boy. "Well, um… I'll call the Nighthawks. Hold on." He straightened up, reached into his pocket.

"Hey!" Barbara barked. "I already warned you! I know very well what'll happen if your friends get here. Babs on a plate, am I right?"

"So what do you suggest," snapped the boy, "Take him to your place?" Barbara couldn't say yes. She didn't even want to see her father, let alone ask for his help. "That's what I thought. Okay, then, we've got to take him somewhere, and the Nighthawks have bikes. Listen, don't worry. This is different. They won't touch you."

"Who's going to stop them?"

"I will."

Somehow, the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, Barbara knew she could believe him, and she didn't try to stop him when he began talking on his phone. "Todd? Yeah, I'm… no, forget about the girl. Look, we've got Bruce Wayne here. Bruce Wayne. I don't know… no. But, I mean, imagine the reward, we'll… okay. Okay. Awesome." He hung up. "The Nighthawks are on their way," he informed Barbara. "Todd can be a creep, but he's not an idiot, he knows the kind of money on the line if Bruce Wayne feels indebted to him. He won't try to pull anything. And," he added, a little sheepishly, "I'll see about getting your bag back from Bert."

Barbara nodded slowly, heart pounding. It didn't seem like a wise plan, but honestly, she couldn't think of any plan which might be construed as wise under these circumstances – besides going home, which wasn't an option (she had her pride). "Okay," she said. "We'll take him back to your place, try to get him warmed up, figure out what's wrong."

"Okay," said the boy. He paused, then said abruptly, thrusting his hand towards Barbara, "Richard. Grayson. Call me Dick."

"Barbara Gordon," Barbara replied.

"Can I call you Barb?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay."

They sat and waited in a silence punctuated only by Wayne's rasping breaths until they heard the roar of motorbikes. A baker's dozen seconds later, they could see lights at the end of the alley, and Todd came towards them. "Hey, Dick. Hey, Red. Holy shit," he said, as he stopped, "That really is Bruce Wayne. Shit, man. Okay. Get him up, we'll load him onto a bike. Dick, man, you got explaining to do."


End file.
